I once attended an office summer theme party by a department of my former employer, the European Commission. Not talented at dress-up, I arrived as I was dressed for the office that day, expecting colleagues with swimsuits over regular clothes and plastic Hawaiian wreaths hung around their necks.
At least this is what a beach-themed party in the middle of winter would look like back home. It was mostly that – but one colleague surprised me with her choice of plastic boots, a raincoat, and a crab-catching bucket in hand. She explained this is how they go to the beach in Normandy.
With summer holidays being so central to my life, it struck me that the experience was not uniform across the continent. In Slovenia, where I’m from, summer means one thing and one thing only: the great escape to the rock-and-pebble, stunning, irregular coastline of Croatia. No sand-purging required there!
As a child, I spent entire summers in a camp in Istria – rising through the ranks from a shared company caravan, to an owned caravan, to a summer house on an island further south.
Those were summers of complete, barefoot freedom: for our nudist camp, we didn’t even need to pack swimsuits. I spent most of them in oversized promotional T-shirts, while always packing two “nice T-shirts or tops for going out”, just in case.
In a post-socialist space where access to the sea is still an uninhibited right - even as the tradition of company-owned accommodation for workers dwindles - my experience is pretty universal. Going to the seaside - preferably in July, before hordes of Italians descend during their ferragosto - is not just a major annual event for many Slovenians and Croatians, but a specific set of cultural and behavioural attitudes.
There are endless dips in the turquoise sea straight off the shore, grilled fish (or čevapčiči) for lunch, and stolen figs on evening walks for dinner, the sound of crickets by day, and 80s tunes from a nearby hotel by night.
It is hard to imagine not everyone “goes to the seaside” in the same way. Even more than the bucket-wielding ex-colleague, I realised this through my husband, who introduced me to the joys of visiting the Belgian coastal town of Knokke-Heist – and I say this without the slightest hint of sarcasm. Going there as a local, not an expat – that is, not on a day trip by train – makes a huge difference.
The green hinterland, where cows graze beside natural ponds and storks nest on chimneys, is a world apart from the overcrowded beach clubs at the foot of a concrete wall of buildings. And yet, for all its hidden charm and beauty, it is not quite “going to the seaside” in my sense of the phrase.
People there dress up to walk the length of the beach, in a unique style I can only describe as “preppy Belgian” – think pink polo shirts paired with green trousers and shabby-looking loafers, to dial down the flash of a Rolex.
On foot or by bike, they brave the wind that is “just a breeze” while I have to shout to make myself heard. That’s two red flags already. Proper beach days, where we actually swim, are just for the bravest of hearts.
Meanwhile, children hone their entrepreneurial skill early by selling paper mesh flowers in exchange for razor shells – the one with the most shells wins. In my childhood, that was dried sea urchins and big, beautiful shells propped on cardboard boxes, sold for actual money.
Every nation has its own version of the lemonade stand. One big reason I enjoy our pre- and post-summer escapes to Knokke (August is peak time here) is that in our prenup, summers in Croatia are protected as an inalienable right.
Despite its sanctity, we’ve occasionally ventured to the grand dames of European summer tourism, from the Côte d’Azur to the Amalfi Coast, with its enchanting island of Capri and nearby Ischia, where we actually got engaged.
For that, I didn’t just pack “two nice T-shirts” – I styled my outfits in advance, by occasion: a day at the overpriced beach club, a pre-dinner Aperol spritz on the piazza, dinner in the lemon grove-like restaurant. I went there on holiday, but not to disconnect. I went to get a taste of a particular lifestyle - the famous Dolce Vita - and perform it, off- and online.
I followed in the Instagram footsteps of celebrities, mostly American ones, who equate the south of Western Europe with Europe itself. As European, I had to discover this unknown part of my identity and understand what the fuss was about! It was summer as style, before I inevitably returned to my summer as freedom.
And this year? As another insufferable heatwave chips away at my dream of a dream summer, I find myself packing for Sweden. Part of the reason is that my son is a quarter Swedish, and we want to introduce him to his less visible roots.
But there is also a quieter part of me I don’t want to admit out loud, that just wants to escape the hellish 35+ degrees the Adriatic has been serving us this beginning of summer.
Admittedly, spending the whole day confined indoors under blasting air-conditioning doesn’t exactly scream freedom – no matter what you’re (not) wearing. For reasons of daylight, we are going there in July, which is a promising start.
I am looking forward to learning more about what summer means there, especially if this “new Provence” will really live up to its moniker. I just hope it turns out to be more than summer as survival. I would be utterly lost without my revered annual dose of unfiltered, rugged freedom.
